(Elemental Assassin 01) Spider's Bite (43 page)

After a moment, Roslyn jerked her head in confirmation. No use denying it now.

“I imagine the hooker came to you, wanting time off to take care of her daughter, who’d been so brutally raped and beaten. You told her about Fletcher and Finn. That they could arrange certain … accidents for people. When Alexis James had Stephenson pick her up, the hooker had to give them something to save her own skin—and she picked Fletcher and Finn.”

“I thought I was doing her a favor. I never dreamed this would happen. If I’d known how it was going to turn out—” Roslyn started.

“Save it,” I snapped. “It’s done now. There’s no changing it.”

We stood there, side by side, and watched another mourner come up to Finn. Tension radiated off Roslyn’s body like cold did mine.

“Are you going to tell Finn?” she finally asked.

I waited a few seconds, letting her sweat. “No. There’s no reason for him to know, and it would only sour things between the two of you.”

“I really do care for him,” Roslyn murmured.

I stared at her with my cold, gray eyes. “I know you do. And he cares for you, which is why I’m letting you live. That, and Catherine.”

Roslyn frowned. “Catherine?”

“She needs you. I know what it’s like to be without your family. That little girl deserves better.” I turned so Roslyn felt the full force of my hard stare. “But if you ever mention what Finn and I do to anyone else, I will slice you up and burn the leftovers. And anything,
anything,
Finn or I need that you can provide, you will from now on until I say otherwise. No questions asked. Understood?”

After a moment, Roslyn slowly nodded. Relief shimmered in her eyes. She knew she’d made a mistake—and that I was letting her off easy.

“Good,” I snapped. “Now go pay your respects to Finn, before I change my fucking mind.”

I drifted away from the crowd and headed toward the very top of the cemetery. Fletcher Lane wasn’t the only person buried here that I’d known.

A series of five graves lay atop the ridge, shaded by a massive maple that seemed to pierce the sky with its arcing limbs. A stone statue had been mounted above the five plots, marking them. Even though thick curls of kudzu covered the stone and the rest of it had been pitted by the rain and wind, the shape was unmistakable. A giant snowflake. The rune of the Snow family, my murdered family.

My eyes drifted down from the statue to the graves themselves. My father, Tristan’s, tombstone was the most weather-worn. He’d died when I’d been a child. I barely recalled his gray eyes, much less what he’d been like. But the others—I remembered them in vivid detail. Eira, my mother. Annabella, my older sister. And Bria, the baby of the family. Runes marked their tombstones. A snowflake, an ivy vine, and a primrose, just like the three drawings I’d done.

I walked past their graves until I came to the fifth one on the end of the row.

Genevieve Snow. Beloved Daughter and Sister
. That’s what the tombstone said, along with the dates of my birth and supposed death. A rune had also been carved into the stone. A small circle with eight thin rays radiating out of it.

A spider rune—identical to the scars on my palms.

I’d thought I’d feel something staring at my own tombstone, my own cold grave, but I didn’t. Just … emptiness at everything I’d lost. First my family, now Fletcher. Not much left for me to hold on to.

“A friend of yours?” a low voice called out behind me.

I turned to stare at Donovan Caine.

The detective stood a few feet away. He wore a black funeral suit that outlined the lean strength of his body. Caine moved to stand beside me. As always, he walked with that loose, easy confidence I found so attractive. But the detective looked a little thinner than I remembered. A little more haggard, and the lines on his face cut a little deeper into his bronze skin, as though something was haunting him. Something he just couldn’t quite shake. I wondered if it was me. I’d certainly thought about him often enough in the week since the incident at the rock quarry.

Donovan’s eyes met mine. Emotions flashed in the hazel depths, the way they always did. Weariness, resolve, curiosity. Caine’s gaze slid down my body, taking in my black pants suit and low pumps, before flicking back to my hair. A chocolate brown color now, with caramel highlights. As close as Jo-Jo had been able to dye it to my natural color. Letting that grow in would take time. It always did. Like so many other things.

His golden gaze read the tombstone. “A friend? Or was this someone you killed?”

I thought of the happy, innocent little girl I’d been and the night everything had changed. The night my mother and sister had been murdered. “You might say that. What are you doing here?”

Donovan jerked his chin at the mourners below. “I came to pay my respects.”

“How did you find out about Fletcher?” I asked.

He shrugged. “People are a lot more willing to do me favors these days. I asked one of the rookies to pull all the deaths that happened the night Gordon Giles died. There was only one that matched the cell phone picture you showed me.”

“I see.”

Donovan hesitated. “I’m—I’m sorry about him, Gin. I know he was Finn’s father, that he was important to you.”

I gave him a wry smile. “Thank you, detective.”

We stood on the hill watching people drift away to their cars. Respects had been paid, and the appropriate words had been said. Now it was time to go back to the land of the living. Something Fletcher wasn’t a part of anymore.

“I saw you on television the other day,” I said. “Nice medal the mayor gave you for solving the Gordon Giles case. Very big and shiny.”

Donovan shifted on his feet. “It’s going into a drawer, with all the rest of them.”

More silence.

“Why did you really come here, detective?” I asked. “Last time we saw each other, you came within a hair’s breadth of trying to kill me for murdering your partner.”

He rubbed his hand through his short, black hair and barked out a laugh. “Fuck if I know.”

“Maybe it’s because of this.”

I grabbed his tie, pulled him close, and kissed him. Donovan stiffened, momentarily shocked by my boldness. But then, the heat flared between us, as bright and strong as ever. A flame, a fire that wouldn’t die. Donovan growled, wound his hand in my hair, and pulled me closer, until I was flush against him. I breathed in, letting his sharp, clean scent fill my nose. His tongue met mine, and we melted into each other, pouring our feelings, our frustrations, our desires, into one perfect kiss.

All too soon it ended.

I dropped my hands from the detective’s tie. Donovan Caine backed away. Our gazes met, gray on gold. Then the detective turned on his heel and walked away. I waited a minute before following him at a slower pace.

Donovan Caine went over and said something to Finn, who looked surprised by the detective’s sudden appearance. Finn hesitated a moment, and the two of them shook hands. Then Caine left, walking past Fletcher’s casket. He didn’t look back.

I strolled over to Finn, who was staring at the detective’s retreating form with a confused look on his face.

“I never thought he’d show up here,” Finn said.

“Well, he did. But he’s gone now. I don’t think we’ll be seeing the detective for a while.”

Not until Donovan Caine could come to terms with whatever he felt for me. Not until he could reconcile wanting me, the woman who’d killed his partner, with the guilt he felt about not avenging Ingles’s death. Not until he could accept all the dark things I’d done, all the people I’d killed—if he ever could.

There was nothing I could do to change how the detective felt or hurry him along. But I was the Spider. I was patient enough to wait him out.

I reached into my purse, pulled out a pair of black sunglasses, and slid them over my eyes. “I’ll see you in two weeks. Try not to get into too much trouble while I’m gone. I’d hate to have to interrupt my vacation to bail your ass out of a jam.”

“Where are you going?” Finn asked.

“Key West,” I replied. “I hear the cabana boys are particularly oily this time of year.” 

33

I got on a plane that afternoon. By midnight, I was listening to the sound of the ocean from the balcony of my hotel room. The wind whipped my hair around my face and blew the tang of salt up to me. The moon overhead painted everything a dull silver.

I raised my latest round of gin to the frothy ocean waves. Ice tinkled against the side of the glass. “Here’s to you, Fletcher.”

Only the ocean waves answered me, so I knocked back the liquor, closed the balcony door, and stumbled off to bed.

Over the next few days, I did all the things a tourist would normally do in Key West. Watched the sun set over Mallory Square. Visited Hemingway’s home. Stared at the cats with too many toes. Took a couple of scuba diving tours. Bought myself some cheap shell jewelry and some real key limes. Drank tropical drinks until I never wanted to look at another pineapple or mango again.

Once I’d exhausted the tourist traps, I lounged by the ocean, reading books and admiring the hard bodies of the lifeguards and cabana boys. Fletcher was right. There were lots to choose from. I struck up a conversation with one of them, Renaldo, who was putting himself through school by working at my hotel. Renaldo made it clear he was more than willing to engage in a few hours of hot, sweaty, meaningless sex—and that he wouldn’t even expect a tip afterward.

But his eyes were brown, not gold, and I sent him away.

I also spent a lot of time staring out at the horizon, sipping boat drinks, and thinking about what I wanted to do when I returned to Ashland. Because I didn’t want to go back to being an assassin. I knew my strengths, my skills, my weaknesses. As the Spider, there was nothing left to prove to myself or anyone else. And it just wouldn’t be the same without Fletcher. No one would be waiting at the Pork Pit late at night for me. No one would ask if I’d been hurt or how things had gone.

No one would care.

More importantly, the old man had wanted me to retire. That had been his final wish, and I was going to honor it, even though I had no clue what I was going to do with myself. But it was time to use my skills for something else. What that something else was, I didn’t know yet.

But I found myself strangely eager to find out.

 * * * 

I returned to Ashland two weeks later, feeling refreshed, rejuvenated, and still slightly sunburned and hung over from all the fruity boat drinks I’d had. I went straight to the Pork Pit, where the others had decided to wait to welcome me home.

It was late, and night had already fallen over Ashland. Blackness cloaked the street, except for the neon pig gleaming its bright blues and pinks over the front door of the Pork Pit. I stood outside in the inky shadows and looked in through the window. Finn, Jo-Jo, and Sophia had already gathered inside the storefront. Finn sipped a cup of chicory coffee at the counter. I could smell the warm, comforting fumes even out here on the street. Sophia pushed a mop back and forth across the floor. Jo-Jo fluttered back and forth, refilling Finn’s cup, wiping down tables, checking on her sister.

Not the family I’d originally started out with, but a family nonetheless. One that I’d do anything to protect. I pulled open the front door. The bell chimed, and I walked through.

Everyone’s head swiveled in my direction, and a moment later, I was bombarded with hugs, back slaps, and questions about my trip. Sophia, in particular, hugged me so hard she cracked my back. Felt good, though.

While the others chattered at me, my eyes swept over the interior of the restaurant. The door, the cash register, the stools. Everything that had been broken the night Fletcher died had been replaced. A dim shape beside the cash register caught my eye, and I realized what it was—the old man’s copy of
Where the Red Fern Grows
. Sophia must have rescued it from the mess. Still, the Pit felt smaller without Fletcher here, emptier than it had been before, despite the others’ presence. I wondered if it would always feel this way to me now.

But this was not the time to be melancholy, so I pushed my dark thoughts away and told the others all about my long-awaited vacation. Jo-Jo, in particular, was interested in my tales of oily cabana boys. Eventually, the four of us settled around one of the tables in the middle of the restaurant.